


silence wild in the mouth

by crownedcarl



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Gen, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mind Manipulation, Murder, Psychological Horror, Steve Harrington-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 16:08:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17831789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownedcarl/pseuds/crownedcarl
Summary: It’s September eighteenth. There’s something in the basement.





	silence wild in the mouth

**Author's Note:**

> title from emma bolden, 'what women's work is'

Steve takes his time getting ready in the morning. It doesn’t take as long, nowadays, but he drags his feet from the moment he opens his eyes, wishing the minutes would last a little longer, his face turned into the cool side of the pillow. It’s bright outside, autumn-bright, cold and crisp from dawn to dusk. The light is bleeding through the slats in his blinds. It makes him tired.

He gets up, placing his bare feet on the floor, sighing. He runs a hand through his hair, yawning, glancing briefly at the clock, seeing the numbers blur. 06:03. He slept a little longer than he should, probably, staring at the numbers, trying to piece his routine together, his thoughts a little foggy. Up, he thinks, staggering down the hall and into the bathroom, staring at his reflection in the mirror above the sink.

There are dark circles beneath his eyes, worse than usual. He does things on autopilot: washes his face, brushes his teeth, combs his hair and returns to his room for an outfit, his hands shaking so badly he drops his shirt, still on the hanger, twice before managing to wrangle it into a secure grip, the wooden coat hanger laying there on the floor. The hardwood is cold. Steve puts his socks on quickly.

Downstairs, it’s drafty, but Steve hasn’t left any windows open. He stands at the top of the stairs, warily staring down, wondering if it’s better to sneak his way out or rush out the door. In the end, he walks at a normal pace, his heart pounding, fingers aching for his bat.

“Not today,” he says, knowing better than to ask. “Not today, please,” and the rumble from the basement makes him flinch. Steve accidentally steps in the damp spot on the carpet, the one by the basement door, putting a hand to his mouth, not wanting to cry. He’s got a whole day to get through. “Please.”

The rumble stops. A thread of something black and brown twists beneath the frame, reaching out and slowly drawing closer. Steve stares down at it, forgetting to breathe, before he chokes out a weak “Thanks,” and dashes for the front door, slamming it behind himself without even a thought towards locking it.

His car is safe. He’s out of reach, there. Steve’s already considered packing up and living out of the damn thing, but his parents will be back in a few weeks, which means questions he doesn’t know how to answer if they find the house bare and dark. He swallows through the panic, closing his eyes, counting to ten before he dares to drive himself to school without accident.

All he has to do is get through today. He’ll figure the rest out later.

-

It happens slowly, at first. Nancy tells him he looks tired, a furrow between her lovely eyebrows, her hand fluttering across his forehead, checking his temperature. “I’m fine,” Steve promises, which is the truth, at least for now. “Didn’t get a lot of sleep, that’s all.”

He didn’t sleep at all. There was this noise, all night, a steady trickle of water. A dripdripdrip that got under his skin and made him stare at the ceiling, wondering where it was coming from, resolving to call the plumber first thing in the morning.

Carl drops by in the afternoon, lugging his toolkit, giving Steve a friendly smile. He mentions going out of town once he’s done, getting some parts from California, deciding to visit his daughter while he’s there. “Sounds great,” Steve responds, smiling. “I didn’t mean to inconvenience you.”

“It’s no problem,” Carl promises. “Now where’s this leak?”

He heads down to the basement at four fifteen on the dot. “Nasty,” he comments, “Must’ve been a pipe that burst,” and his shoes squelch a little in the water gathering at the top of the stairs, murky and dark. “I’ll let you know when I’m done.”

The house is big, Steve reminds himself. There’s no reason he _should_ be able to hear Carl working, but something is nagging at him, insistent and worried. All night, the water dripping kept him up, made him toss and turn for hours before giving up and rising with the sun. Carl has tools. He’s got a wrench and a hammer, just in case, but the house is quiet as the grave.

Steve works up the nerve to pour a glass of lemonade, knocking on the basement door, listening for a response. “Hey,” he tries, “You thirsty?” but there’s no response, no shuffling movement or reply.

His hand is tight around the glass. After a moment, Steve slowly cracks open the door, looking down into the darkness, then glances at the light switch. It’s on.

“...Carl?” he whispers, mind working at a mile a minute, praying and hoping he’s wrong about this, the way he’s usually wrong about things. “Say something.”

Something moves. Something fleshy and pink and slimy crawls up the first step.

Steve screams. He slams the door, backing up fast, stepping on something sharp and wet, staring down at the remnants of the lemonade and the glass, his heart pounding. He feels terrified, but then all he feels is drained in an instant, his head hurting, eyes unfocused as he stares at the door waiting for something to happen. Anything would be better than the waiting.

Finally, the floorboards creak and groan. It sounds plaintive, in a way. _Don’t tell._

“What,” Steve manages, “What are you?” but no other noise reaches his ears and the door stays shut. A whimper fills the room, but it’s his own.

The van, Steve thinks. The damn van is still parked out front.

The phone rings. He lets it wail for a long time before it ends abruptly, his body moving stiffly to the front door, grabbing Carl’s car keys off the counter, deciding to grab the hat he left there, too, walking out onto the lawn. Evidence, he thinks, nobody can prove anything without the evidence to back it up.

He leaves the van deep in the woods. He comes home hours later, shivering, closing the door and leaning heavily against it before sliding down, his knees drawn up to his chest. For some reason, Steve ends up laughing, covering his face with his hands. This is it, he realizes. This is the moment he really goes crazy.

“What do you want?” he laughs, the house shaking around him. It’s almost gentle, like being rocked to sleep in someone’s arms, something comforting about the floor rolling carefully beneath him. Whatever’s living in his house, it’s trying to calm him down.

There are no words, no other reply. Finally, it stops, but Steve stares at the damp carpeting, the spot spreading even as he looks, quietly asking “People?”

He feels calm, strangely. Safe. He’s not the target.

A hum, low and soft, tells him everything that he needs to know. Nodding maniacally, Steve stands up on stiff legs and walks to his room, squeezing his eyes shut as he passes the door, opening them once he trips on the first step up the stairs, fear squeezing his heart for a moment before it’s lulled to sleep. “I’m going to,” he says, as if anyone is actually listening, the fatigue and the terror making him drowsy, his eyes already half-closed, “I’m going to lay down.”

He’s out before his head even hits the pillow.

-

Steve has blood beneath his fingernails, Jonathan notes. “Oh,” he says, blinking, frowning down at his hands. He must’ve clenched his fists too hard, Billy walking past him and bumping his shoulder, Steve’s blood running hot with anger. It happens, sometimes. “It’s nothing.”

He hasn’t been home in almost a whole day. He stayed at Dustin’s, making up an excuse as to why and then feeling oddly guilty about it, not wanting to keep Dustin in the dark. Still, he can’t bring himself to tell the truth, not knowing what the truth actually is. _There’s a monster in my house. I’m scared. I wish I was scared._

Maybe. Maybe he’s crazy, after all.

He doesn’t know how often he needs to do what he agreed to, but he thinks it’s been long enough, eyeing Tommy in class, wondering if he could convince him to come over, to have a beer, to let bygones be bygones. No, Steve decides. Too close. People would wonder, he muses, staring down at his notes, horrified, wondering what the fuck is wrong with him for thinking that way.

“I can’t,” he says, later, into the bathroom mirror. “I don’t know how.”

After the panic wells up, after Steve considers calling Hopper, the eerie calm overtakes him again. It’s going to be alright, he thinks. Be careful and you won’t be caught.

He drives through town, out of town, past city limits. There’s a man, eventually, downtrodden and ecstatic for the offer of a place to stay, letting Steve drive him home, chattering away all the while. His name is Ryan, he’s from Boston and he’s so grateful for Steve showing him a little kindness, restoring his faith in humanity, following Steve inside the house with a smile and opening the basement door.

There’s a little waver to his smile, now, eyes darting to Steve. “Uh,” he manages, “Looks kind of dark down there, man,” and Steve shuts his eyes and shoves Ryan with both hands, slamming the door behind him, listening intently.

A crunch, a pop. Slurping. There are no screams, but the rumble and groan tells Steve he’s safe for at least tonight, feeding the monster in his house so he won’t die.

I killed him. I did that.

He feels tired, suddenly, knowing that he needs to get around to his homework before his grades really start slipping, not wanting to deal with his parents and their disappointed looks once they get back and discover their son is not only dumb, but lazy.

It takes hours, every paragraph a struggle when his head’s so heavy, but it gets done. Steve doesn’t feel hungry, exactly, but he makes himself eat a banana and drink a glass of water, his hands shaking until he puffs a cigarette in record time out back, managing to calm himself down enough to see straight.

It doesn’t end, he realizes. There’s no stopping this.

Calm, calm. It rolls over him like a wave, his stomach heavy with nausea, shivering from the chill, wondering how he forgot to put on a jacket. It doesn’t matter once he steps back inside, but he ends up frowning at the heater, checking three times to confirm what he already knows: it’s working and it’s on, but the house is freezing around him, making Steve wrap his arms around himself as he tiptoes to the stairs, deciding there’s nothing to do but sleep, or at least make the attempt. “...good night,” he mutters, laughing out loud, a short burst of air, when the floor shivers under his feet. “Yeah. Thanks.”

It’s almost like having a friend, Steve thinks, before he falls asleep.

-

“El says something is wrong.”

Steve stares at Mike, wondering what he did to become a part of this conversation. “I’m the babysitter,” he manages, “I don’t have time for this.”

Mike glares. Steve sighs, raising his hands, letting the kids crowd around him with eager little faces, Dustin practically dying to speak, his mouth held shut only by Lucas clapping a hand across it, letting Mike go on. “I’m serious,” he huffs, “She’s been feeling this presence. All over town, and it’s...dark. She says it’s really bad.”

Oh, Steve thinks. “You tell Hopper yet?” he asks, flying through the mental gymnastics he’s going to require to explain this fucking _situation_ to Hopper, preparing himself to lie, backdating whatever alibis he can think of. So far, it’s been two hitchhikers and one wife beating man from the bar, stumbling drunk down the basement stairs. Hopper would still notice, though.

He must have.

“Duh,” Dustin finally manages, wriggling out of Lucas’s grip, launching himself at Steve and grabbing the front of his shirt. “And she _says_ she doesn’t know what it wants or what it’s doing here! Like, people aren’t being eaten, nobody’s really gone missing, so.”

“So?” Steve asks, humoring him.

 _“So,”_ Dustin grins, “Brainstorming!”

-

The brainstorming lasts a whole four and a half hours. The kids are all groggy by the time Steve drops them all off, Dustin giving him this weird look from the passenger seat before he steps out, holding the door open, letting all the warm air out. “What?” Steve sighs, rubbing at his eyes, realizing he’s running on empty. It’s been a while since he’s eaten.

“Nothing,” Dustin is quick to say, his lips pursing. “Just...are you alright, man?”

“Of course I am.”

“Okay,” Dustin mumbles, “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Steve nods, closing the door once Dustin is out, giving him a little wave once he reaches the front door. He sees Dustin turning to look at him, mouth half open like he’s about to say something, but he turns around again and goes inside, shutting the door and leaving Steve alone with his thoughts.

-

No matter how long he leaves the windows open, the air in the house starts to smell stuffy, the smell of a crowded room in the summer. It makes it hard to breathe, sometimes, when he steps inside after school, his stomach turning before he adjusts to it.

It reminds Steve of the time he visited a butcher shop with his parents, standing there at the counter, peering behind the curtain separating the clean, tidy front from the dimly lit back room, the smell hitting him like a ton of bricks. He can smell that, too; the scent of meat and old blood and rot, living in the walls, closing in on him day by day.

Jonathan calls. “You wanna study with me and Nancy?” he asks, but no matter how grateful Steve is for the offer and the opportunity for a distraction, the floor is rumbling beneath his feet and he knows it’s been too long, car keys already gripped in his palm, digging into the skin. It makes him feel more present in his body, less like he’s about to float away.

“Sorry,” he sighs, “I can’t. I’ve got something important I need to do today.”

Jonathan jokes “Don’t work too hard,” before he hangs up. Steve glares down at the carpeting, his socks damp even now, far from the basement door.

“Stop it,” he yells, his throat hurting, his head pounding. The calm grips him. He can do this. He has, before. “I’ll get it done.”

This time, the person getting shoved down the stairs is Amy. She’s pretty and she looks at Steve the whole drive like she knows what she’s getting into, eyes wide and sad when Steve puts a hand on her back, falling like a puppet with its strings cut. He closes the door before he can see where she lands, but the light from the hallway illuminates the staircase, letting Steve see the rot that’s steadily climbing towards the top.

“Good night,” he says.

-

Will is a great kid.

He doesn’t need much from Steve, the times he’s babysitting him. All he asks for is a snack, now and then, letting Steve sit in comfortable silence while they both chip away at their schoolwork, eventually turning on the radio and wordlessly agreeing on a channel, Will’s smile soft when he looks at Steve.

It’s been a hard year for Will, but he still manages to be the same calm kid that Steve has always been a little protective of, humming along to the songs he knows, frowning down at his math questions and chewing on his thumbnail, asking Steve a couple of questions here and there. He trusts Steve, is the thing, with things that Steve doesn’t know if he tells his mom or Jonathan.

“I have these weird dreams,” Will confesses, embarrassed and serious. “It’s...it’s not the upside down, I don’t think. But it feels like it.”

“I think that’s normal,” Steve tells him, “After what you went through.”

“Yeah,” Will sighs, “But it’s weird. It’s like I’m in it? In the...thing. It’s sad. It’s lonely and it’s hungry and it wants to go home, but it’s always so dark. It doesn’t like the dark.”

There’s a lump in Steve’s throat. “Oh,” he manages, before bursting into tears, not knowing where the hell it’s coming from, clearing his throat as he wipes unsuccessfully at his face, a pit of despair opening in his stomach as Will stares at him and furiously stutters out an apology, then another, begging Steve not to be upset, asking what he did wrong. Before Steve can think to stop him, Will is rushing to the phone and all Steve can do is cry and cry as Will talks to someone in a low, scared voice.

Once he hangs up, there are thin arms around Steve’s shoulders, Will whispering “It’s alright. Jonathan is on his way,” and even now, even in a panic, Steve recognizes that this is going to ruin everything, then wonders why the hell he cares. He’s nothing but a murderer.

It takes another ten minutes before Jonathan pulls up, Nancy in tow, the two of them running inside expecting the worst. “Steve?” Nancy gasps, walking over, “What’s wrong?”

Will sounds terrified, stumbling over his words, repeating what he told Steve, Jonathan looking over at him with a face so worried that Steve could start crying all over again, now that he’s finally got himself under control. It embarrasses him, being seen like this, pushing Nancy away until he can brace his elbows on his knees and whisper “Something is wrong.”

“Tell me,” Nancy says, and Steve laughs.

“There’s something in the basement.”

-

Will tells Nancy and Jonathan and eventually Hopper exactly what he told Steve, before hesitantly adding “It’s in pain. It made me feel really sad,” and before Steve can process that, Will mumbles “It wanted a friend. That’s all.”

It throws Steve for such a loop, he barely believes it, hands in his hair, his face pressed to the tops of his knees. “I don’t know,” he groans, “I don’t know anything, anymore.”

His head is hurting again. The terror comes, the way it always does, but the calm never follows, leaving Steve shaking and queasy, staring down at the floor. This floor doesn’t move.

“I’ll get Jane,” Hopper tells them. “We’ll figure it out. And, kid,” he says, turning to place a warm hand on Steve’s shoulder, “You’re staying here, tonight. Alright?”

All Steve can manage is a weak nod, his throat tight. “I killed people,” he says, “I’m crazy. I have to be.”

“No,” Hopper says after a pause, which means he had to consider all the options, which means Steve isn’t safe, but it feels oddly alright to sit there and come to terms with it, with Nancy’s wide-eyed disbelief staring at him from the corner of the room. “You’re tired, that’s what you are. Get some sleep, kid.”

He does, eventually, falling asleep to a hushed argument between Nancy and Jonathan lulling him safely into the darkness.

-

Jane won’t get out of the car.

“No,” she says. “No.”

“Jane,” Hopper sighs, tired and on a short fuse, crammed into a car with far too many kids. It makes Steve want to laugh. He knows the feeling. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but you’re the only one that can help. So I’m just going to ask this once. Please. You don’t want to, we can go home. But this will spread. Please.”

She hesitates, clutching Mike’s hand, glancing at the house and shrinking down an inch before straightening herself out. “Okay.”

“Everyone out of the car. Nancy, you got-?”

“Ready,” she answers, hand going to her gun. Jonathan grips the crowbar in his hands a little tighter and Steve, not trusting himself with his bat or any weapon at all, really, shoves his hands into his pockets and exhales sharply.

“I hope it doesn’t come down to it,” Hopper mutters, “But we need to be ready. Now, what did we agree on, kids?”

“You say run, we run,” Lucas sighs.

Dustin mumbles “We don’t ask questions, we follow orders.”

Will’s voice is trembling. “Call for backup if you can’t.”

“Stay calm,” Max adds.

“Stay safe at all costs,” Mike says, word for word from Hopper’s instruction, Hopper’s frown smoothing out bit by bit. He hates bringing them here, Steve knows, but he understands that Jane needs the support, grateful that she agreed at all.

“We send it back,” Jane whispers. “No hurting.”

Hopper looks at her so tenderly it might break Steve’s heart, if he looked any longer. “Yeah,” Hopper agrees. “Not unless it’s a last resort.”

One by one, the group of them file inside the house. Nancy unlocks the door when Steve keeps dropping the keys, a steady presence at his side as they work their way inside, step by step, everyone on high alert. Steve chokes, same as the rest of them, as the air reeking of illness rushes down into his lungs, the house too quiet around them. He can’t hear the hum or the hiss of the floor, right now.

“It’s this way,” he says, staring at the door, at the carpet that’s soaked through with murky water, dark spots on the doorframe, like mold growing rapidly. “I can’t.”

“You have to,” Jonathan says, like it’s that simple. “You’re familiar with it. We’ve got you.”

It’s not exactly reassuring and it’s probably not meant to be, but it’s a promise, at least, that Steve isn’t doing it alone. He takes a deep breath, then glances at Dustin, who wordlessly hands him a flashlight. Steve turns it on before reaching for the handle, the door swinging open on protesting hinges.

It’s strange; usually, the light would spill down the stairs. Now, the darkness envelops them all, moving into the hallway, leaving them all tense. “We’re coming down,” Steve calls out, his eyes closed, heart pounding frantically, a familiar sense of peace enveloping him. This time, it feels less like a manipulation and more like an apology. “Don’t...hurt anyone.”

He leads the way. He’s terrified, wondering where the bodies are, if there are pieces left, wondering how to get rid of them, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. “Everyone alright?” he asks, voice shaking, getting affirmatives in low voices, Jane whispering to Mike about something he can’t quite make out. It sounds serious. It sounds like a potential goodbye.

Steve doesn’t want to think about that. All over the floor, there are roots, or what passes for them, at least, but diseased and dry, gnarled and dark. He steps carefully over them. He wonders why he’s afraid to hurt it.

The water isn’t deep, only an inch or less, but it’s ice cold the second Steve steps in it, making him gasp and stumble. There’s a noise of distress from somewhere deep in the basement, Steve’s mouth going dry when he rounds a shelf and sees it, for the first time, the thing that’s been haunting him, growth covering the wall like ivy.

Whatever it is, it’s not quite right. A tree, maybe, if it was put through a meat grinder and spit out wrong, roots moving like limbs, pulsating like a heart pumping out its last, weak and irregular movements that make the whole room tremble. There’s bones at the heart of it, the damp, dark gaping vastness of the shape between the two thick limbs keeping it upright, Steve’s stomach turning so violently he barely manages not to throw up.

Jane says “Sad,” and huddles at Steve’s back, inadvertently forcing him another step closer, awe and terror and disbelief hitting him all at once, because the thing in front of him is like something out of a novel, something his eyes can’t quite process, one hand reaching out slowly to feel the texture of the flesh, or the wood, or whatever it is. It ends up being very soft, pliable to his fingers poking at it, sinking into it. He pulls his hand back in an instant, like he’s been burned.

“Why?” he asks. Nothing answers him. “Why?” he demands again, only restrained from launching himself at the thing by Will gripping his hand and squeezing, feeling about two seconds away from a mental breakdown, his head heavy.

There’s another groan, but this time, it vibrates through Steve, coming from all over, around him, below him. He doesn’t know why he’s not angry, suddenly, but there’s something like understanding in the way his body relaxes, letting himself be pulled back and away. It isn’t until Jane whispers “Friend. It wanted a friend,” that Steve wonders if maybe he’s the reason behind all this madness, if maybe he misunderstood what it wanted.

The bones of Carl and the hitchhikers and the local drunk remind him not to feel too bad for the monster in his house. He won’t let his guard down.

“Home,” Jane says. “I can take you home. Will you let me?”

Steve wants to kill it. He wants to burn the house down around it with himself still inside.

“Yes,” Steve says at the same moment the gaping maw of the tree-like creature does. “Yes.”

-

“Feeds,” Jane says, later, after the deed is done. Steve had been the last one to leave the basement, not knowing how to part with the monster that had, strangely, become a fixture in his life, for better or for worse. He wonders if he’ll miss it, glancing over at Jane, wondering if he spaced out in the middle of the conversation, but she’s staring intently at him, unnervingly so, not letting Hopper usher her home just yet. “It feeds.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “It told me to...bring people. I know.”

“No,” she says, her voice urgent, asking Steve to believe her. “It feeds on you. Feelings. Sadness.”

That’s not outside of the realm of possibility, Steve thinks, but it doesn’t add up. “It asked for people,” he stresses. “It did.”

“Yes. Feelings. It was hungry. It had to...eat them. Not their sadness.”

I fed the thing in my house so it wouldn’t eat me, Steve thinks, all the exhaustion he’s been forcing himself to power through coming back, sitting on his shoulders like the weight of the world, Atlas in the flesh. “So it’s my fault,” he guesses. “People died for no reason.”

She’s not smiling, but Jane has a way of knowing what people need. For a kid who wasn’t allowed to experience any emotion, she has a way with them. “No,” she tells him, very kindly, pointing at his chest. “It was not clear. Not your fault. It ate them.”

That’s fair, Steve figures, but he’s never going to forget the feeling of pushing people to their end, or the way their eyes looked in those last few moments, or how Carl went downstairs and never came back up, his daughter hopelessly posting flyers all over town, even now. “Yeah. It did. I still feel bad about it, though.”

“It gets better,” Jane says knowingly. “You are good. I know.”

Maybe he used to be, maybe he’ll be good again, but right now, Steve is a bad person. His head hurts and his chest is tight and he wants to cry until there’s no tears left, not wanting to be left alone in this fucking house, wishing someone would take him somewhere else. “Thanks,” he says to Jane, “You’re good, too.”

She leaves, still smiling, the house very empty around Steve. He’s going to have to get used to that.

-

Billy has a sneer on his face, pushing closer to Steve through the throng of students moving up and down the hallways on their way to their next class, Billy’s eyes zeroing in on Steve and his hand clutching tight around Steve’s wrist, jerking him sideways into a locker. “Pretty boy,” Billy greets, “You been sick? Haven’t seen you around.”

Briefly, in a moment of crazed exhaustion, Steve thinks he wouldn’t feel bad about feeding Billy to the monster in the basement if it was still there. He wouldn’t even feel all that guilty, except for about the cleanup and the evidence, but then he shakes his head and remembers that it’s gone. He is on his own again.

It’s fine. He looks at Billy and remembers one crucial thing: he’s faced worse monsters, before.

“Didn’t know you cared,” Steve says, wrenching himself free from Billy’s grip, offering him a tight-lipped smile. His blood is hot. He resists the urge to do something stupid. “Might not want to get too close, Hargrove. I could be contagious.”

Billy’s eyes are narrowing. He’s tilting his head at Steve like he’s trying to figure something out, licking his lips, one hand reaching for Steve’s jacket, straightening it roughly. It’s almost funny, the way Billy keeps getting closer, staring Steve down with a glint in his eye. It screams danger, but Steve doesn’t back down. “Something’s different about you,” Billy notes, backing up a step, grinning the same stupid fucking grin Steve has seen so many times. It’s getting old. “You finally get some balls, Harrington? Starin’ at me like you’re dying to teach me a lesson, that’s new.”

Nancy is eyeing him from down the hall, eyebrows high, her hands on her hips. She’s asking the question without words: _you got this?_

Steve has learned a lot, these past couple of months. He doesn’t know how to not let the monster win, but he knows one pretty important thing, and that’s to make the attempt, no matter how little he wants to. “You really don’t want to know,” he tells Billy, turning his back and walking away. “Have a good one, Billy.”

He can feel eyes on his back, following him. It doesn’t give him pause, for once, as he makes his way to Nancy, putting an arm around her shoulders, reminding himself that there’s no reason to dread going home. The monster is gone. “Hey, you,” Steve says, “Ready for another riveting day of high school English class?”

“Yeah,” she laughs, “Beats monster hunting any day,” and privately, Steve agrees with her, his shadow trailing behind him, dark and heavy, as the two of them head to class, his head weighed down with exhaustion. When he hums, the floor hums with him, soothing and familiar.


End file.
